Players of Gor

by Norman, John;

  Another fellow was diligently investigating in the vicinity of the narrow, twisted strip of cloth, fringed, and covered with sequins, which we had bound about her breasts. We thought we owed her this much in public. She was, after all, a free woman.

  “Take your hands off me!” she cried.

  “There is nothing here,” said the fellow.

  With difficulty I caught her left ankle and buckled it, too, in its place, against the colorful backboard.

  Another pulled her head by the hair forward from the backboard and brushed back her hair, on the left.

  “Stop!” she cried. “Stop!”

  “Nothing here,” said the fellow, pushing back her head against the backboard. She was not branded either on the left side of the neck, behind and below the left ear.

  “As you can see, Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Boots, “on her lovely throat she does not wear the light collar of inflexible steel, that beautiful circlet proclamatory of absolute bondage. Similarly her beauty has not, as yet at least, as you can see, been graced by the imprinting upon it of some delicate emblem indicative of the status of property, some device recollective of the unmistakable, transforming kiss of the blazing iron! As advertised, as proclaimed, as announced earlier, she is a free female!”

  “She cannot be a free female,” said a man. “Otherwise she would not be used in this fashion.”

  “Come now,” said Boots. “Surely you have all known free women whom you would have enjoyed treating in this fashion.”

  There was a great deal of laughter. One of the free women in the audience struck the fellow next to her with her elbow.

  “Take your hands off me!” cried the Lady Yanina to one of the men standing near her, a fellow who had perhaps decided to resume the discontinued investigations of his peers. She then, to the horror of the crowd, spit virulently in his face. “Sleen! Sleen!” she cried at him. Then she turned her head to the crowd. “Sleen!” she screamed. “You are all sleen!” She spit out at the crowd, twice. Then she stood there in the straps, helpless, sobbing. The crowd observed her, in stunned silence.

  “As you can see,” said Boots, swiftly, enthusiastically, thinking like lightning, “she is, as advertised, as certified, a free woman! What more proof could you possibly desire? What slave would dare to behave so?” It was an excellent point which Boots was making. No slave would be likely to behave in a fashion like that, or at least more than once. Such a behavior would be likely to be followed by hideous punishments, if not death by torture. How should I put this delicately? Perhaps, thusly: Insubordination in any form, of any sort, in even the tiniest, least significant degree, is not accepted from slave girls by their Gorean masters.

  Suddenly, as it had become clear what had occurred, the crowd began to turn ugly. “Give her to us!” called a man. “Let us buy her!” called another. “We will take up a collection!” cried another, looking about himself. “Yes!” said a man. “Yes!” cried another. “I want her!” called a man. “She can pull my plow!” “We will brand her and put her in a collar quickly enough!” cried another. “Sell her to us!” called another. “If he will not sell her, let us seize her by force!” cried another.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, ladies!” called out Boots, jovially. “Let us remain calm. No harm has been done. Let us get on with the show. Step back, step back, please.”

  Grudgingly the crowd stepped back a bit, clearing a half circle around the heavy, braced, upright structure of painted planks. I regarded the Lady Yanina. She was now trembling, terrified, in the straps. There were certainly enough fellows in the crowd, if they became unruly, to take her away from us. Also, of course, Boots would never have approved of vigorous altercations with paying customers, and certainly would have frowned upon slaying them, even a few of them. That sort of thing is not good for business.

  Boots motioned me forward. I approached, the multiple sheath of saddle knives at my left hip.

  “May I present Tarl, he of the Plains of Turia, he of the Lands of the Wagon Peoples, master of the mystic quivas, the famed saddle knives of the southern barbarians, come to us at great expense and in spite of many perils by special arrangement with Kamchak, Ubar San of the Wagon Peoples!”

  “That’s Kamchak,” I said. I thought I owed at least that much to my old buddy of the south. I supposed that if Kamchak had known his name was being used in this fashion, and mispronounced at that, and Boots was within his grasp he might have, as a joke, for Kamchak was fond of jokes, had Boots put in a sack and put out in front of the bosk, curious to see if they would move in that direction on that particular morning. On the other hand, perhaps he would only have challenged him to a spitting contest or one in which the number of seeds in different sorts of tospits were guessed and then, if Boots lost, put him out with the bosk, to see what way they might move that day.

  “Is it true,” asked Boots, “that you never miss?”

  “Well, actually no,” I admitted.

  “What!” cried Boots, in horror.

  “You must understand,” I said, “that I have no intention of hitting her. She is, after all, a free woman.”

  The Lady Yanina regarded me, wildly. “I thought you were an expert!” she cried.

  “I have never done this before,” I admitted.

  “Good,” said a man. I am not sure, but I think he was the one she had spit upon. He, at any rate, did not appear pleasantly disposed towards her.

  The Lady Yanina regarded me with horror.

  “Never,” I admitted.

  She stood there, buckled in place, against the bright red, yellow-trimmed backboard. She then, suddenly, frenziedly, began to struggle. I did not much blame her. In the end, of course, she stood precisely as she had before. I had not buckled her in in such a way as to permit her to free herself. She was a lovely woman. The costume, too, set her off nicely. Her throat required only a collar. Her thigh required only a brand. She whimpered a bit, pulling at the straps. She knew herself absolutely helpless. It was important, of course, that she was a free woman for this bit of showmanship. Who in the crowd would have been that interested, or concerned, or thrilled with horror, to see a slave in such jeopardy? What sort of take would that have brought in? Not many coins, I feared, would be likely to rattle in the kettle on behalf of so unimaginative an offering. Also, of course, slaves generally have some value, at least to the master, even if not much. They, at least, can be bought and sold. Who would want to risk one in such a foolish manner? Free women, on the other hand, being priceless, have for most practical purposes no value whatsoever.

  “Step back, please,” warned Boots, gravely. “Give him room.”

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  I took my position.

  “Let me ask your forgiveness in advance, lady,” I said, “should I possibly strike you.”

  “Why would you do that, in advance?” asked Boots.

  “It might be pointless afterwards,” I said.

  “That is true,” he granted me.

  Lady Yanina moaned. She tugged weakly at the straps. As she was fastened against the backboard, her wrists were drawn somewhat above her head and far to the sides. Similarly her legs were widely spread. If the board had been laid flat on the ground, the captive then on her back, the position, immediately, would have been recognized as a common binding position, one in which girls are not unoften put for slave use.

  “Be quiet,” Boots warned the crowd. “We must have absolute quiet.”

  Some fellow sneezed. I think it was the fellow she had spit upon.

  “Please!” begged Boots.

  “I have something in my eye,” I said.

  “Are you all right?” asked Boots.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am all right now.”

  “Is it true that you sometimes miss?” asked Boots, anxiously.

  “Sometimes,” I admitted.

  Boots regarded me.

  “No one is perfect,” I told him.

  “Throw,” said Boots bravely, resolutely.
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br />   I unsheathed one of the quivas, and turned it in my hand. I then turned to face the Lady Yanina. “What is wrong with her?” I asked.

  “She has fainted,” said a man.

  12

  Conversations with a Monster;

  The Punishment of a Slave

  “How did the accident occur?” I asked.

  “What accident?” he asked.

  There were fourteen pieces on the board, six yellow, eight red. I was playing red.

  I had now been with the company of Boots Tarsk-Bit for several weeks. In this time we had played numerous villages and towns, sometimes just outside their walls, or even against them, when we had not been permitted within. Too, we had often set up outside mills, inns, granaries, customs posts and trade barns, wherever an audience might be found, even at the intersections of traveled roads and, on certain days, in the vicinity of rural markets. In all this time we had been gradually moving north and westward, slowly toward the coast, toward Thassa, the Sea.

  “As I understand it,” I said, “there was a fire.”

  He regarded me.

  “You wear a hood,” I said.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “That accident which destroyed or disfigured your face,” I said, “that rendered it such, as I understand it, that women might run screaming from your sight, that men, crying out, sickened and revolted, might drive you with poles and cudgels, like some feared, disgusting beast, from their own habitats and haunts.”

  “Are you trying to put me off my game?” he inquired.

  “No,” I said.

  “It is your move,” he said. “Your next move.”

  I returned my attention to the board. “I do not think the game will last much longer,” I said.

  “You are right,” he said.

  “Out of the several times we have played,” I said, “never have I enjoyed so great an advantage in material.”

  “Do you have an advantage?” he asked.

  “Obviously,” I said. “More importantly I enjoy an immense advantage positionally.”

  “How is that?” he inquired.

  “Note,” I said. I thrust my Rider of the High Tharlarion to Ubar’s Initiate Eight. “If you do not defend, it will be capture of Home Stone on the next move.”

  “So it would seem,” he said.

  His Home Stone was at Ubar’s Initiate One. It was flanked by a Builder at Ubar’s Builder One. It was too late to utilize the Builder defensively now. No Builder move could now protect the Home Stone. Indeed it could not even, at this point, clear an escape route for its flight. He must do something with his Ubara, now at Ubara’s Tarnsman Five. The configuration of pieces on the board was as follows: On my first rank, my Home Stone was at Ubar’s Initiate One; I had a Builder at Ubar’s Scribe One. On my second rank, I had a Spearman at Ubar’s Builder Two, a Scribe at Ubara Two, and another Rider of the High Tharlarion at Ubara’s Scribe Two. On my third rank, I had a Spearman at Ubar’s Initiate Three and another at Ubar’s Scribe Three. One of my Riders of the High Tharlarion, as I indicated earlier, was now at Ubar’s Initiate Eight, threatening capture of Home Stone on the next move. On his eighth rank he had a Spearman at Ubar’s Builder Eight, inserted between my two Spearmen on my third rank. His Spearman at Ubar’s Builder Eight was supported by another of his Spearmen, posted at Ubar’s Scribe Seven. He had his Ubara, as I indicated earlier, at Ubara’s Tarnsman Five. This was backed by a Scribe at Ubara’s Scribe Four. This alignment of the Ubara and Scribe did not frighten me. If he should be so foolish as to bring his Ubara to my Ubar’s Builder One, it would be taken by my Builder. His Scribe could recapture but he would have lost his Ubara, and for only a Builder. His last two pieces were located on his first rank. They were, as I indicated earlier, his Home Stone, located at Ubar’s Initiate One, and a Builder, located at Ubar’s Builder One. The Builder was his Ubar’s Builder.

  “How would you choose to defend?” he inquired.

  “You could bring your Ubara over to your Ubar’s Initiate Five, threatening the Rider of the High Tharlarion,” I said.

  “But you would then retreat to your Ubar’s Initiate Seven, the Rider of the High Tharlarion then protected by your Scribe at Ubara Two,” he said. “This could immobilize the Ubara, while permitting you to maintain your pressure on the Ubar’s Initiate’s file. It could also give you time to build an even stronger attack.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He placed his Ubara at Ubara’s Tarnsman Two.

  “That is the better move,” I said.

  “I think so,” he said.

  Ubar’s Initiate Nine, that square from which I might effect capture of Home Stone, was now protected by his Ubara.

  “Behold,” I said.

  “Yes?” he said.

  I now moved my Scribe from Ubara Two to Ubara’s Tarnsman Three. This brought it onto the diagonal on which lay the crucial square, Ubar’s Initiate Nine. He could not take it with his Ubara, of course, sweeping down his Ubara’s Tarnsman’s file, because it was protected now by my other Rider of the High Tharlarion, that hitherto, seemingly innocent, seemingly uninvolved piece which had just happened, apparently, to be posted at Ubara’s Scribe Two. Now its true purpose, lurking at that square, was dramatically revealed. I had planned it well. “You may now protect your Home Stone,” I said, “but only at the cost of your Ubara.” I would now move my Rider of the High Tharlarion to Ubar’s Initiate Nine, threatening capture of Home Stone. His only defense would be the capture of the Rider of the High Tharlarion with his Ubara, at which point, of course, I would recapture with the Scribe, thus exchanging the Rider of the High Tharlarion for a Ubara, an exchange much to my profit. Then with my superior, even overwhelming, advantage in material, it would be easy to bring about the conclusion of the game in short order.

  “I see,” he said.

  “And I had red,” I reminded him. Yellow opens, of course. This permits him to dictate the opening and, accordingly, immediately assume the offensive. Many players of Kaissa, not even of the caste of players, incidentally, know several openings, in numerous variations, several moves into the game. This is one reason certain irregular, or eccentric, defenses, though often theoretically weak, are occasionally used by players with red. In this way the game is opened and new trails, even if dubious ones, must be blazed. If these irregular or eccentric defenses tend to be successful, of course, they soon, too, become part of the familiar, analyzed lore of the game. On the master’s level, it might be mentioned, it is not unusual for red, because of the disadvantages attendant on the second move, to play for a draw.

  “You still have red,” observed my opponent.

  “I have waited long for this moment of vengeance,” I said. “My triumph here will be all the sweeter for having experienced so many swift, casual, outrageously humiliating defeats at your hands.”

  “Your attitude is interesting,” he said. “I doubt that I myself would be likely to find in one victory an adequate compensation for a hundred somewhat embarrassing defeats.”

  “It is not that I am so bad,” I said, defensively. “It is rather that you are rather good.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  To be honest, I had never played with a better player. Many Goreans are quite skilled in the game, and I had played with them. I had even, upon occasion, played with members of the caste of players, but never, never, had I played with anyone who remotely approached the level of this fellow. His play was normally exact, even painfully exact, and an opponent’s smallest mistake or least weakness in position would be likely to be exploited devastatingly and mercilessly, but, beyond this, an exhibition of a certain brilliant methodicality not unknown amongst high-level players, it was often characterized by an astounding inventiveness, an astounding creativity, in combinations. He was the sort of fellow who did not merely play the game but contributed to it. Further, sometimes to my irritation, he often, too often, in my opinion, seemed to produce these things with an apparent lack of effort, with
an almost insolent ease, with an almost arrogant nonchalance.

  It is one thing to be beaten by someone; it is another thing to have it done roundly, you sweating and fuming, while the other fellow, as far as you can tell, is spending most of his time, except for an occasional instant spent sizing up the board and moving, in considering the ambient trivia of the camp or the shapes and motions of passing clouds. If this fellow had a weakness in Kaissa it was perhaps a tendency to occasionally indulge in curious or even reckless experimentation. Too, I was convinced he might occasionally let his attention wander just a bit too much, perhaps confident of his ability to overcome inadvertencies, or perhaps because of a tendency to underestimate opponents. Too, he had an interest in the psychology of the game. Once he had put a Ubara en prise in a game with me. I, certain that it must be the bait in some subtle trap I could not detect, not only refused to take it but, worrying about it, and avoiding it, eventually succeeded in producing the collapse of my entire game. Another time he had done the same thing with pretty much the same results. “I had not noticed that it was en prise,” he had confessed later. “I was thinking about something else.” Had I dared to take advantage of that misplay I might not have had to wait until now to win a game with him. Yes, he was sometimes a somewhat irritating fellow to play. I had little doubt, however, that, in playing with him, my skills in Kaissa had been considerably sharpened.

  “Do you wish to resign?” I asked him.

  “I do not think so,” he said.

  “The game is over,” I informed him.

  “I agree,” he said.

  “It would be embarrassing to bring it to its conclusion,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted.

  “Resign,” I suggested.

  “No,” he said.

  “Do not be churlish,” I smiled.

  “That is a privilege of ‘monsters,’” he said.

  “Very well,” I said. Actually I did not want him to resign. I had waited a very long time for this victory, and I would savor every move until capture of Home Stone.

  “What is going on?” asked Bina, coming up to us, chewing on a larma.